


Soul on Soul

by IAmANonnieMouse



Series: Souls [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Discussed character death, Lots of Angst, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Sadness, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 00:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17355827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: Eames kisses his temple gently. “I’ll help you, darling,” he whispers. “We’ll set you right again.”





	Soul on Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of angst ahead. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Arthur stops sleeping through the night two weeks After It Happens. He wakes up in the dark, listens to the clatter of his die as he throws it on the floor again and again and again.

The weak light from the moon is just bright enough for him to see.

_Three. Three. Three. Three._

"It was just a dream," he whispers. "Just a dream."

He inhales shakily, wipes at the tears rolling down his face, and forces his pounding heart to settle. 

He rolls his die once more, then climbs back into bed, curling into himself under the cold covers, body trembling. 

He isn't dreaming anymore.

~

The major side effect of Somnacin is that users lose their ability to dream naturally while asleep. Arthur knows this. The whole dreamshare community knows this.

It doesn’t explain why he’s suddenly started dreaming now. Why he wakes every night, screaming and sobbing and gasping.

Arthur rolls his die and waits for it to land on a five, a two, a one.

_Three._

_Three._

_Three._

He picks up the die and hurls it at the wall, hears it clatter to the floor.

This isn’t a dream.

Why the hell isn’t this a dream?

~

It doesn’t take long for him to turn to the PASIV. He dreams every night whether he wants to or not; he may as well have control over what he dreams about.

He sprawls on the bed, staring up at the ceiling covered in the mural Eames painted for their ten-year anniversary, and lets the Somnacin pull him under.

“Darling,” Eames says, “what are you doing here?”

Arthur is still on the bed, still staring up at the ceiling, but he knows that this isn't real.

He lets his head loll to the side. Eames is sitting on the bed at his side, eyes sparkling, mouth curling.

“I wanted to say hi,” Arthur says, voice rough.

Eames’ smile falters. “Darling.” He reaches out and brushes a hand through Arthur’s hair, greasy and tangled and unkempt. “You’re wasting away on me. You promised you wouldn’t do that.”

Arthur shudders and leans into the familiar touch. He shouldn’t be here.

“I miss you,” he says, choked. “I can’t—I haven’t—”

“Oh, darling.” Eames wraps his arms around Arthur and clutches him close, and for the first time in weeks, Arthur falls asleep cocooned in Eames’ scent, in Eames’ warmth.

He wakes up thirty minutes (six hours) later, alone, in their bed, PASIV beeping. He closes his eyes, tears trailing down his cheeks. If he tries, he can still feel Eames’ arms around him.

~

He’ll never do it again. That’s what he tells himself. That half hour was a moment of weakness, an indulgence. He knows better.

He puts the PASIV in the back of the closet and tries to forget about it.

~

At night, the dreams keep coming.

The acrid tang of vomit, red streaks of blood. Clumps of hair in the sink, the sharp smell of bleach in the bathroom.

The heart monitor, beeping steadily through the night.

Then, the sustained noise, sharp and unforgettable and mocking in its tone.

Arthur wakes up screaming Eames’ name.

~

Arthur’s hands tremble as he digs through the closet, tossing aside shoes and coat hangers and belts. He drags the PASIV out and inserts his cannula haphazardly, finding the vein only by habit.

The timer is still set for thirty minutes. He presses the button before he is even completely on the bed.

When he opens his eyes, he’s in Eames’ arms.

“Eames,” Arthur whispers.

Eames leans down and kisses him. “What’s wrong, darling?” he asks.

 _Everything,_ Arthur thinks.

Eames kisses his forehead, nose, cheeks. “Are you sleeping?” he murmurs.

“No,” Arthur admits. “I can’t.”

Eames hugs him more tightly and they sit in silence, Eames rocking them both slightly, back and forth and back and forth.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Eames whispers into the quiet.

Arthur presses closer to Eames. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m trying.”

Eames clutches him close. Arthur forces himself to push away images of a different Eames, pale and weak and sick and—

“When’s the last time you left the house, darling?”

Arthur blinks slowly. “What?”

“What about a shower?” Eames presses. “Have you showered recently?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “I don’t care.”

“Well I care,” Eames says. “And it kills me to see you like this, darling.”

Arthur can’t stop the horrible laughter that slips out of him, so guttural, so helpless, that he doesn’t notice when his laughs turn to heaving sobs. He wakes up crying, the PASIV beeping impassively at him.

~

Arthur limits himself to one dream a week. He’s seen what happens to people who chase after ghosts, and he tells himself that he knows better.

But weeks pass, and the only sleep Arthur’s getting is the half hour he spends hooked up to the PASIV.

So he stays under a little longer. Forty minutes, an hour, three hours. Five hours. It’s the only sleep he’s getting, he reasons. It’s okay to make exceptions.

And if he somehow manages to overdose on Somnacin or end up in Limbo, well. He wouldn’t really care.

~

“You need to talk to someone,” Eames tells him one afternoon at the beach.

“Fuck that,” Arthur says. “I don’t need to sit on some couch and listen to a therapist tell me I’m grieving.”

Eames smiles. “I just meant another human being, love, not a therapist.”

Arthur looks at him.

“Have you returned any of Ariadne’s phone calls?” Eames asks. “Or Dom’s? God, I think even Yusuf’s called you at this point.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “He said Ariadne blackmailed him.”

Eames rolls his eyes. “That’s lovely. My point is, you should call them back.”

“And have them ask if I’m okay?” Arthur shakes his head. “I’m not going to call them just to listen to them trip over themselves trying not to say the wrong thing. I’m not okay. And we all know it, so there’s no point in talking about it.” He looks over at Eames, then down at the sand. “This is all your fault, you know. If you hadn’t left, I wouldn’t be such a mess.”

Eames sighs quietly, the noise lost in the roar of the waves. “Darling.” He takes Arthur’s hand. “I’m dead. I died on March seventeenth. You held my hand the entire time, just like this. And I tried to keep my eyes open as long as I could, because I couldn’t bear to leave you.”

Arthur closes his eyes, wordlessly shaking his head, but Eames keeps speaking.

“I didn’t want to leave you, Arthur, but I did. Death took me kicking and screaming, darling, but he managed to drag me away.”

A hand brushes through his hair.

“But I’m not going to watch you sit here and waste away until you’re begging Death to take you too. You’re more than this, love. You’re stronger than this.”

Arthur shudders. “I used to be,” he breathes. “Before I met you, I was. But you weren’t in my life, and then you were—and you weren’t just a _part_ of it, Eames. You were everything to me. And I don’t know if I can live in a world without you in it.”

Eames’ hand tightens around his. In the distance, Arthur can hear the tide coming in, the seagulls cawing.

Eames kisses his temple gently. “I’ll help you, darling,” he whispers. “We’ll set you right again.”

~

Arthur calls Dom the next day.

“How are you holding up?” Dom asks. “Is everything—no, no, James, James put that down, honey, thank you.” There’s a pause. “Arthur?”

Arthur presses his hand against his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says. “As good as can be expected.”

“Right,” Dom says. “Of course. That’s great, I—Phillipa, we do not throw our food at the—Arthur, I’m sorry, can I call you back?”

“Yeah, we’ll talk later.”

Dom says, “Okay, great, glad to hear everything’s good,” and hangs up.

Arthur takes a deep breath. “Did that count?” he asks the empty room.

He can almost hear Eames say no.

“Asshole,” he mutters. He picks up his phone and dials Ariadne.

“Have you gotten drunk yet?” Ariadne asks the moment she picks up.

Arthur hesitates. “No.”

“Wow, you're in better shape than I thought, then.” Ariadne exhales loudly into the phone. “I had this whole idea in my head that you were, like, lying in a puddle of your own vomit after you passed out drunk from grief.”

Arthur pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at it. “I'm not that bad,” he says after a pause. When Ariadne doesn't respond, he closes his eyes and swallows and whispers, “I miss him.”

“I know,” Ariadne murmurs. “I miss him, too.”

They sit in silence for a moment.

“Do you want me to come over and get drunk with you?” she offers abruptly.

Arthur snorts. “No, that's okay. Thanks, though.”

“Any time. You know that, right? You can call any time.”

“I know,” Arthur says, rubbing his forehead. “Thanks, Ari.”

“You take care of yourself,” Ariadne says. “Make sure you eat!”

Arthur says, “I will,” and hangs up. He sighs. “Was _that_ good enough?” he asks.

Nobody answers.

~

At the end of that week, Arthur goes to the back of his closet. He pulls out his favorite suit and tie. As he dresses, he imagines Eames’ voice, remembers how Eames used to fuss with his buttons and untuck his shirt.

He doesn’t know how it can still hurt this much.

He smooths back his hair, manages to put on his cufflinks despite his trembling fingers, and steps outside.

The sun hits him like a slap in the face, and he realizes just how long it’s been since he left the house. He pries the mail from where it’s spilling out of his mailbox and tosses it on the table before locking the door behind him. 

He's outside. 

Eames is dead.

Arthur straightens his shoulders and starts down the street towards the store. He needs some food, milk, bread, maybe some meat.

_You can do this, darling._

He can do this.

The store is pretty quiet, and Arthur ghosts through the aisles, fixated on the world around him that hasn’t stopped moving since Eames’ death. 

He grabs a loaf of bread. A half gallon of milk. A jar of nutella. A bag of Eames’ favorite chips. _Crisps, darling. They’re crisps._ Stocks up on more tea, just in case.

The cashier smiles at him as he empties his basket. “How are you doing today?” she asks.

 _I’ve left the house for the first time since Eames died twenty-five days ago,_ Arthur thinks. _I have, surprisingly, not had a nervous breakdown yet._

He doesn’t say that. He opens his mouth to respond, and out tumbles, “Oh, I’m brilliant. And yourself?”

“Not bad,” the cashier answers. “Total is sixteen forty.”

Arthur hands her a twenty. Takes his change, manages to smile that gorgeous, practiced grin that Eames could flash on a moment’s notice.

He doesn’t run home, but it’s a close thing.

~

The PASIV looks at him from the corner of his room, but he doesn’t go to it. Not yet.

He unpacks his groceries and makes himself a cup of tea. Earl Grey, Eames’ favorite. A dollop of milk, just enough to add some color. _Colour, darling, your spelling leaves much to be desired._

He sips it. Swallows. Realizes his hands are trembling.

What is happening to him?

_You’re drinking my tea, darling. Do you like it?_

Arthur does.

He finishes his tea then moves to the PASIV. Sets the timer for an hour, because fuck it. He and Eames have things to discuss.

~

“Is it possible for the subconscious to do this?” Arthur asks, head pillowed in Eames’ lap.

Eames hums, trailing his fingers through Arthur’s hair. “I would normally say no, but we’re far from normal, darling.”

“It was like I was you, Eames. Although, you probably would have flirted with that girl more.”

“I would have. Missed opportunity, there.”

Arthur shifts, turns to look into Eames’ eyes. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, love,” Eames whispers, smiling gently. “But if it helps you stay sane, I can’t say I’d complain.”

Arthur closes his eyes, relishes the feeling of Eames near him, next to him, around him. Just _Eames._

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, darling. But I’m right here.”

Arthur almost believes it.

~

He finally works up the nerve to open his email. There are a couple job offers waiting for them, some that aren’t even old.

He scans them idly. There’s an easy one, single level, no forge. Same old, same old: husband is a cheater. Eames probably could have given them the evidence without even going under.

Arthur hits reply. Single level, in and out. He might as well.

~

The extractor is a boisterous young man who goes by Padre. He claps Arthur enthusiastically on the back when he arrives and cracks dirty jokes like it’s a second language.

Arthur likes him, to the extent that he takes Arthur’s mind off his other problems.

The job is simple, and Arthur shakes his hand at the end and manages to be sincere when he says, “It was nice working with you.”’

“Hey,” Padre says, pulling him closer. “Arthur. I heard about Eames, man. And, you know, I didn’t wanna bother you with personal shit, you get me? But I just wanted you to know, man. We all miss him. It was a huge loss, you know?”

Arthur clenches his jaw and ignores his blurring vision. “Thank you,” he manages.

Padre nods and shakes his hand some more. Arthur manages to hold off his tears until he’s gone.

~

Back home, Arthur experiments. He drinks Eames’ favorite ( _favourite, darling, honestly, shouldn’t you know this by now?_ ) teas and even tries Marmite, which, thankfully, remains disgusting and unappealing to him. He notices people’s mannerisms more, starts saying cheers instead of thanks, bloody to accompany buggering fuck.

He starts sleeping better at night, starts turning to the PASIV less. Why would he need to? Eames had said it himself: he’s right here.

~

Arthur asks Eames, “Do you think I can forge now?”

Eames looks at him. “You couldn’t before, darling.”

“Yeah, but I’m not like I was before.” Arthur sits up. “I’m half you now, basically.”

Eames narrows his eyes. “Why the sudden interest, love?”

Arthur shrugs. “Why not?”

Eames purses his lips. “I can't exactly stop you,” he says.

Arthur takes this the way it's intended. The next time he's under on a job, he slips away and finds himself a good mirror to stand in front of.

Eames tried to teach him, once. Back when they were both younger and wilder. Arthur had thought he could conquer the world.

Arthur closes his eyes. Breathes. Targets that other presence he can feel inside himself now, remembers the weight of Eames’ hands, the warmth of Eames’ gaze.

He opens his eyes. From the mirror, Eames stares back.

~

Arthur counts it as the greatest victory. He starts taking on jobs that require minor forges, slips into Eames’ skin first, and then the forge, because there is something about being _Eames_ that helps him unlock the secret.

Eames nudges him on, continues to exist as his other half. Arthur takes a cup of Earl Grey in the morning instead of his coffee, and he sometimes writes _colour_ instead of _color,_ says _bin_ instead of _trash can._

His heart doesn't hurt like it used to, now that he has Eames right here with him.

Nothing hurts like it used to.

~

Over time, Arthur learns how to slide into his forge directly, channeling Eames in his mind without having to slip under his skin.

He starts marketing himself as a jack of all trades. He can do it all: architect, point man, forger. Whatever you want him to be.

He goes to Eames’ favorite tattoo artist and steadily works on etching every last one of Eames’ tattoos into his own skin, feeling something _right_ settle inside of him as he looks at the black lines spiraling over his arms and chest.

Eames hums appreciatively. _My ink looks good on you, darling._

Arthur nods and pulls on a button-down, rolling up the sleeves and leaving the top buttons undone. Eames hates the feeling of a tight shirt collar around his throat.

One morning, Eames gets a sweet tooth and asks Arthur to put a spoonful of sugar in their morning tea. Arthur winces at the taste, so much sugar so early in the morning, and Eames laughs and tells him it helps the medicine go down.

Arthur tells him to go fuck himself, and Eames says, _By all means darling, please do._

Arthur sleeps through the night, every night, falls into bed worn out but happy and slides into that blissful, dreamless sleep.

Nothing hurts anymore.

~

He takes the job with Ariadne because it's been ages since they've seen each other. When he arrives, he sees a young woman bent over her desk, and he almost thinks he's gone back to the Inception job, with a young, wide-eyed architect who doesn't know anything about paradoxical architecture.

 _So nostalgic, darling,_ Eames murmurs. _Let's go say hello, hm?_

Arthur walks across the room, hands wrapped around the strap of his satchel. She glances up as he approaches, and she smiles pleasantly.

"You must be Arthur," she says. "I've heard a lot about you. I'm Sophie."

Arthur clasps her hand the way Eames loves to and bows dramatically. "Sophie. Pleasure to meet you."

She smiles, charmed and intrigued.

From across the room, he hears Ariadne call his name, and he straightens in time to catch her and hug her.

"It's good to see you," he says. It feels inadequate.

He puts Ariadne down and she tugs on his jacket. "You look better," she says, eyes worried.

 _Could you tell her hello from me?_ Eames asks.

Arthur shrugs and wrenches his mind back to the conversation at hand. "As good as I can be," he tells Ariadne. It's not quite a lie.

Arthur turns back to Sophie, tries to wrangle Eames into submission and stop Ariadne from worrying. "I read your notes on the plane," he says, and proceeds to detail every reason Eames told him to forge the daughter, not the mistress.

He can feel eyes on him as he walks over to his desk—Sophie's and Ariadne's.

 _Brighten up, darling,_ Eames tells him. _Have a cup of tea._

~

Ariadne comes over to him later, when Sophie is out.

"So," she says softly. "You're a forger now."

Arthur looks up at her. "I'm still a point man, too."

She smiles. "I thought Eames said you couldn't forge. He tried to teach you."

Arthur expects that to hurt, Eames' name and the past tense, so he isn't surprised when it does. Eames is suspiciously silent.

"I'm a different person now than I was then," he says.

Ariadne nods, then hugs him again. "I'm glad you're doing okay," she says.

Arthur closes his eyes and treasures the feeling of someone's arms around him outside of a dream. "I miss him, Ari."

"I miss him, too," she whispers.

She hugs him for a long time. Arthur can't quite bring himself to let go.

~

Sophie is bright and talented and reminds Arthur of himself. So it doesn't surprise him when she appears in his dream one morning, as he sits with Eames and watches the purple-pink waters in front of him.

And there's something. Maybe it's the way Eames seems to like her too. Maybe it's the fact that working a job with Ariadne is harder than he could have possibly imagined, because he's trying to keep Eames under control instead of explaining to Ariadne what the hell is going on. Maybe it's just that Eames was right all along—he needed to talk to someone.

But he tells Sophie. He and Eames tell her about the old technology, the goddamn arsenic, the loss.

 _I hated everyone,_ he thinks in the quiet that follows, as he stares at the purple water. _I wanted to kill every useless, brainless fuck who had designed the PASIVs, make them understand what I had lost._

 _I can still remember it,_ he wants to say. _The hospital. That godawful hospital smell, it fucking haunts me, I swear to god. The seizures, the pain, the coma. The taste of bile at the back of my throat, the feel of my hair falling out in chunks, I— ___

__But those aren't his memories. Those… those are Eames' memories._ _

__Eames' hand tightens around his ankle._ _

__Arthur stares at the purple-pink waters in front of him and says nothing._ _

____

~

He goes home for his mother's birthday. It's the first time he's seen his family in years. He should be happy, but he can't shake the feeling that he's an outsider in someone else's home.

"Arthur," his sister says, and it takes him a second too long to respond, because he's expecting a different name. "Arthur, what's wrong with you?"

"Wrong?" Arthur asks, lips curled. He arches a brow. "Nothing's wrong. Why would you say that?"

Her eyes flicker over him, too fast to follow. "You're just… you seem different."

Arthur lets his smile fade into something sad, melancholy. "I am different."

She nods and walks away. Arthur cups his drink in his hands and drifts around the room, chatting with their other relatives.

"Oh, Arthur," one of his aunts says. "You've gotten so tall! I still remember when you barely came up to my knee."

"Small enough to hide under those stairs," his uncle says, laughing. "And then you'd jump out at us, roaring like a lion."

Arthur laughs. "That was fun," he says, but that's not what he's thinking.

He's thinking of hide and seek in his childhood mansion, chilly breakfast conversations over warm tea, playing his mother's grand piano that he wasn't supposed to touch. 

_Eames,_ Arthur thinks, _these are your memories, not mine._

Arthur can feel Eames, can sense him shifting around, nervous and restless. But Eames doesn't answer him.

Arthur stumbles through the rest of the night, chocking back pet names and trying to remember how he used to smile.

 _Eames, what the hell is happening?_ he asks.

But Eames doesn't answer.

~

"We need to talk," Arthur says. The words come out warped, struggling to be British, fighting to remain American.

He's sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of Earl Grey. He hasn’t had a cup of coffee in months. He can barely stand to swallow the stuff now. His pressed suits and cufflinks have been set aside for shirts with wide collars and loud patterns. He keeps his die in one pocket and Eames' favourite pocket watch in the other. Favorite, he reminds himself.

Neither spelling looks right anymore.

"Eames," Arthur says, and it's like at his mother's birthday party—he can feel Eames inside of him, feel every inhalation, every second thought. But Eames still won't answer him.

"Fine," Arthur says, voice curling over the word. "Then I'll come to you.

He gets up, pours out the cup of tea, and opens the PASIV.

~

"I'm sorry, darling," Eames says the instant Arthur opens his eyes. "I should have realized this would happen."

"What?" Arthur asks. "What _is_ happening, Eames? You won't fucking answer me."

"I'm trying to give you space," Eames says, wincing. "I should've seen this coming. Me taking over like this."

"Taking over," Arthur echoes flatly.

"Darling." Eames takes his hands. "I always was the louder one, hm? So it makes sense that I'm sort of…taking over you. You drink my tea, you wear my clothes. You got my tattoos."

"Because I want to keep you close to me, Eames," Arthur says. "I thought we were okay with…whatever this is. I thought that's what we were doing."

"We are." Eames pushes a strand of hair back from Arthur's face. "But…I think I came on a bit too strong, love. That's all. I'm trying to give you some room to breathe so you can remember what it's like without me living in your head. So you can remember how to smile like you used to."

Arthur sighs and shifts so he's pressed against Eames' side. "But I like having you with me."

Eames kisses the top of his head. "I'm not leaving you, love. I'm just taking a couple steps back."

"Okay," Arthur says.

"Okay," Eames says.

~

It makes sense, in hindsight. Eames has always been the louder one, and maybe Arthur hid behind that. Maybe Arthur fell into the easiness of letting Eames take over.

So now they're taking a couple steps back, giving Arthur some room to breathe.

Arthur can breathe. He's been breathing all along.

But now he doesn't know if he wants Earl Grey or coffee in the morning. Now when he greets someone, he stumbles over _cheers_ and _nice to meet you_ and shaking hands or bowing like a prince. Now when he's talking, he sounds like some horrible cross between an ex-pat and an American trying too hard to be British. 

Now, he can feel the difference inside of him, the parts that are Eames and the parts that are his. 

It chafes at him, this split. 

_I can breathe, Eames,_ Arthur thinks. _I've been breathing all along. So come back already._

~

It doesn't work, the two-steps-back thing. So they try to go back to where they used to be, but it still isn't right. Arthur can feel every point where they align—and every point where they don't. He stumbles over mannerisms, struggles to wade through two people's memories, and drinks orange juice every morning now so nobody is happy.

He's stopped taking jobs again, because he doesn't even know who he is anymore. He'd be too much of a liability in a dream, he'd probably fucking clone himself like Agent Smith the minute he went under. 

"This isn't working, Eames," he says. "I can't keep doing this."

 _Then don't,_ Eames answers. _Send me away._

Arthur shakes his head. "I can't do that either."

He feels Eames' sigh. _I don't know what to do, darling._

Arthur pulls out his Glock. "There's the easy solution," he says, but the words haven't even left his mouth before his hands have pulled out the magazine and tossed the pieces aside.

 _Don't you fucking dare,_ Eames hisses.

Arthur closes his eyes and falls onto the couch. "Why not? It would solve everything."

Eames is silent for a moment. _Call Yusuf._

Arthur sighs and reaches for the phone.

~

"Wake up, darling."

Arthur's eyes blink open. Eames is hovering over him, frowning.

"Why are we dreaming?" Arthur asks, sitting up. "I didn't—"

"It's Yusuf," Eames says. 

"What?"

"He put you under. They're trying to figure out how to help you."

Arthur sits up. "They're trying to help me by keeping me asleep?"

"He's monitoring you topside. Ariadne's reading through the notes you left her."

"Eames."

"They're doing what they can."

_"Eames."_

Eames stops and looks at Arthur. "What?"

"Why can you remember this, and I can't?"

Instead of answering, Eames grabs hold of Arthur's hands. "Can you feel it?" he murmurs. "The part of you still up there?"

Arthur frowns, but Eames is right—he can feel a sort of pressure in him, a tether to the real world. If he focuses enough, he can almost feel the prick of the needle under his skin.

"There you go," Eames says. "When you can't feel it anymore…" He shrugs.

"I'm not going to wake up again, am I?" Arthur asks.

Eames pulls Arthur close, runs his fingers through Arthur's hair. "I don't know, darling," he whispers. "Do you want to wake up?"

Arthur doesn't have an answer for him.

~

They settle into this odd life very easily. Arthur doesn't know if they're in Arthur's head, or Eames', or Limbo, but one of them created their apartment and street and _town_ , and whenever they test the boundaries of the dream, it just keeps growing. Arthur goes grocery shopping in the same store, Eames gets a croissant at the same corner bakery, and they still watch the same godawful TV shows at night.

As Arthur climbs into bed beside Eames a few days (weeks?) in, he understands how Dom and Mal got so lost down here. He curls into Eames' warmth, treasures the weight of Eames' arm around him, and thinks that maybe he doesn't want to wake up after all. 

And he can still feel that tether to the real world, that prick beneath his skin, but it's getting weaker each day (week?), and Arthur can't be bothered to worry.

What is there to worry about, when he's fending off Eames' attempts to sneak food into the shopping cart as if Arthur wouldn't notice?

~

Arthur loses count of the weeks (months? Years?) that go by, but then one morning, he blinks his eyes open, stretches against Eames' warm body, and realizes that the tether is gone.

He runs a hand down his arm and doesn't feel the prick under his skin. He closes his eyes, tries to feel for a tug, a tension.

"What's wrong?" Eames asks sleepily.

Arthur pauses, turns to face Eames fully. "I don't feel it anymore."

Eames blinks at him, and his mouth stretches into a sloppy smile, and he says, "What do you want to do today, darling? The world is at our feet."

**Author's Note:**

> The plot of this almost exactly follows the outline [Flosculatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/pseuds/flosculatory) left me in [this amazing comment](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/111463269) on [Shattered Souls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829772). Read it and be in awe of her <3
> 
> Also, I wrote a little coda/post script scene with Yusuf and Ari, but I felt it didn't fit the tone of the rest of the fic, so instead I'm plopping it in this author's note at the end for you, because I didn't want to scrap it either.
> 
> ~
> 
> Ariadne stares into the fire as Yusuf dumps another handful of paper into the pit.
> 
> "We failed," she says, voice jagged.
> 
> Yusuf hums. "Maybe, maybe not."
> 
> "What do you mean, maybe? He died. We promised we would help him!"
> 
> "Ariadne." Yusuf sets the papers aside and sits next to her. "I promised I'd help him find peace. And he has."
> 
> Ariadne shakes her head. "It's not fair."
> 
> "It isn't," Yusuf agrees. "It isn't fair Eames died in the first place. It isn't fair that Arthur couldn't figure out how to live with this…split personality thing they had. But I think this? The way everything turned out? It's better for the both of them. They're together now. They'll enjoy that."
> 
> Ariadne rubs at her eyes. Her hands come away damp. "I miss them both. What are we gonna do?"
> 
> "I'm going to finish burning the notes," Yusuf answers. "And then I'm going to remember them, just like I remembered Mal."
> 
> Ariadne pauses, thinking of the parallels. A couple taken before their time by dreamshare. Grief. Loss.
> 
> She closes her eyes. "It's not fair," she whispers. She wipes her eyes again, then helps Yusuf burn the rest of their notes.


End file.
